Kal Kent
by kalelfang
Summary: With a clack of a gun Clark will loose everything, including himself. (R&R please.)
1. Prologue

This is my first entry on FanFiction. If you like what I have so far, more chapters will follow. Enjoy.

Prologue

The air was still and sticky with humidity, pale moonlight finding it hard to break through the hot air and light up the darkness of the night. Perspiration plastered hair to the heads of Smallville's population. All around the city fans were going and air conditioning was blaring. Even the animals seemed bothered by this uncomfortable torture of nature. Grasshoppers weren't chirping and the scurrying creatures had all retreated to cool down in their dens. Despite this, one person drove the quiet dirt roads without so much as a droplet of sweat or heated squint. He was Clark Kent and he was a boy with the world on his shoulders.

The rusting sea blue Ford pulled up the dirt road slowly, its driver preoccupied in an ocean of thoughts and his face was not trying to disprove so. Shadows from the sun blocker in front of him and unkept black hair hid his eyes and furrowed lines of concentration decorated his forehead. He still had on the dirty jeans from chores around the farm earlier that morning. A flannel t-shirt clutched tightly at his chest and a faded jean jacket wrapped over it, giving Clark unneeded bulk.

The farm boy could feel something in the air, could almost touch the ominous cloud that pricked at the hairs on the back of his neck. He could hear the low rumble of an old Chevy a couple miles behind him. It was the same rumble that had been with him for twenty minutes now. Clark had taken nearly every back road in Smallville to test the stranger, and every time he heard the vehicle continue after him. Either he was being followed, or he was involved in one elaborate coincidence. Clark increased the pressure on the accelerator. Worn tires kicked up plumes of dirt as the speedometer whipped past the sixty miles-per-hour mark.

The stranger kept on despite Clark's desperate efforts. Though his legs were more reliable than his truck, ditching it for a maniac to pulverize was something he was sure his parents wouldn't be too happy about.

"Mom and Dad...." The worried boy thought aloud.

Should he continue on or lead the stalker away from his house? If this person knew Clark as well as he suspected, he was sure his house would be the stopping point. He wouldn't let anything happen to his parents. Not them. Deciding to continue home, Clark made the last turn down the dirt road that led to the farm. Already he could see the two giant silos of feed in the distance. Nearly next to them was the blood red farm house he had cleaned and repainted so many times in the course of his life, nestled on dark grassy hills. Seconds later he saw the wood work of his house. No lights were on and not even the ember of his power-conservative mother's lamp from nights of sleepless bill reviews lit up the windows.

Good. That would make this go much smoother.

Arriving at his house with narrowed eyes, Clark jammed the wheel to the left and slammed on the brakes. The cry of screeching tires filled the air and a shower of dust and tiny rocks splashed against the delicate door that granted entrance to his humble abode. Almost immediately he was out of the truck. Off in the distance he could hear the car approaching ever closer. Within only a minute or two he saw the black van that would come to be the nightly host of his tormenting nightmares. Mostly innocent, one could mistake it for an FBI vehicle or another of those government agencies that worried Clark. Its approach was casual and calm.

All would have seemed well had it not been for the metallically masked man Clark saw hidden behind the tinted windows. Surprised, he found his eagle gaze unable to pierce the facade over the stranger's face.

"Lead..." Clark said, breaking the eerie silence.

From the build and frame he could tell it was a man. He was cloaked in loose black flushed over with a slight red that hinted at a lead paint Clark had run into before. The man (boy?) was scrawnier than him and a couple inches shorter than the six foot farm boy. He had the classic bank robber look to him.

"That's right Clark. Couldn't let you see the face of your murderer. Not as fun that way. And this," he said, pointing to a baseball bat lined with odd green gemstones that had begun to emit a soft glow, "should also prove interesting to you."

Clark couldn't make out the voice either. It buzzed and rattled as it shot through a voice changer. Yet, the voice became less and less intriguing as Clark felt his mind start to cloud and his step start to sway. Beneath his steel shell was blood that was boiling from the green toxin. Unable to keep his stance, the boy fell to his knees.

"What's the matter? Where's the big bad wolf?" The robotic voice mocked. The figure drew closer, steps like a nervous shuffle towards him.

With a sickening crack the bat rammed into the side of Clark's awaiting skull. He tried his best to keep some sort of coordinated awareness as he completely collapsed onto the dirt, but focusing his eyes only made them roll back into his head further. Mixed with the feeling of hot tea coursing through his veins, the nausea forced in by the bat's contact was too much. Aching fingers clutched needlessly at dirt as the quivering Clark tried to get back up. The moment he got his bearings and managed to put some weight on his elbows, the bat slammed into the back of his head and forced his face back into the dirt.

"W-why are you d-doing this?" Clark's voice trembled in unison with his body, ferocity burning in his eyes like a bonfire. His teeth were grinding so tightly together he was sure they'd crumble and snap. The assailant said nothing. The silence of the night was broken only with the Kryptonian's harsh breathes. As if the bat wasn't enough, the man withdrew a switchblade that flicked out a pulsing green edge. Laughter rumbled through the voice box as the robot-man cut open Clark's shirt and his jacket, revealing lean muscles beneath. The blade made one deep, sadistic cut above Clark's heart. Blood trailed down his abdomen and began blackening around his waist, bubbling like lava as a small green gem was placed in the wound. The next few moments were stolen in midst of the seizure now wracking the boy's body. Noise, whether from Clark's half-gurgled screams or the initial sound of the bat, made it to the occupants of the small farm house.

Shouts.  
"Get away from him!"

A shotgun blast hitting only the dirt.

A pistol clacking.

Screams.  
"Johnathon! Look out!"  
"Martha! My God! Martha! I'll get you, you sick son of a—"

Another shot fired.

Silence.

"Clark! Oh my God!" The voice soothed his ears, eased his mind as it drifted back into consciousness. He felt the kryptonite slide with a sickly squish from his chest and heard it bounce off into the distance.

Lana...it was Lana. He had completely forgotten about their history cram tonight. Thank God she was here. With her presence and her embrace the pain had stopped, he was warm again. He wasn't sure where the bastard that had brutalized him had run off to, but he didn't care. He needed to tell his parents what was going on before he could explain the sealing wound to Lana. He had to make sure they were safe...and then her arms left him.

Sobs.

He sat up groggily and looked at Lana, her hand trembling weakly in front of her face. Following her gaze, he caught the view of a hand hung limp over his porch stairs.

No. A dream. Just a sick nightmare. Eyes squeezed shut; Clark fought back a tsunami of tears.


	2. My Blackest Tears

Well, sense people liked the Prologue, I guess I'll continue . This is just the ending of the prologue part of the story, so sorry if it ends up being too short for your liking. This will answer everyone's questions. Enjoy.

Prologue- My Blackest Tears

The rain beat relentlessly against the tented windows of the black hearse, the pit-pattering of the droplets a relaxing jingle to the ears of the boy forced by tragedy into manhood. It was as if the heavens themselves wept with Clark. It was only early afternoon, two days after the murder of his parents. The dark, stormy skies painted the earth below in a hue of grey and a flush of dew. The day was eerily similar to the funeral of Whitney's father not too long ago. The storm had forced everyone inside after days of dry humidity.

Several black, white, and grey vehicles moved behind the hearse, following in silent respect. Every now and then Clark would catch a glimpse of a curious kid pressing his or her pale face to the window as the hearse, the insidious grim reaper crept down their streets with the steel frame glimmering like a sickle. Most of the time the child would be shooed back away from the window by a worrying parent, but other times they would stay. The innocence that usually decorated their faces was gone for the passing of death, even their minds comprehending the black cloud that threatened to strike them down if they dare tread outside.

_"I'm calling it; 10:32 P.M." The doctor announced with a sigh, setting down the paddles that still itched with electricity. The one hovering over his mother nodded in agreement, and set his down as well._

_It was at that moment, ironically, that Clark's tears stopped. Lana's face was buried in his chest, grabbing at it as she choked on her cries. She hadn't seen the wound on his chest seal up quite as well as he thought she had, and she accepted (clearly distracted with the events at hand) that it just stung a little and didn't need to be checked out. Heartlessly, Clark pulled himself away from the clutch of the mascara ridden Lana._

_"Clark? Where are you going?" She asked, her voice showing no sign of being phased by his action._

_He didn't answer her however, making his way down the hall and out of the hospital in somber quiet._

The memory replayed itself in his head for the umpteenth time like a broken record. He was snapped out of his daze as his door opened up, an ebony figure waiting for him outside the door. Pete. Poor Pete who could barely talk when Lana phoned him and informed him of what happened. He had known Clark his entire life, and had considered the Kents his second family. Pete said nothing as Clark lifted himself from the black leather of the hearse, respecting his silence.

Moments later the pallbearers had been assembled and were lugging the great oak coffins to the shallow graves. Clark had a hand on either coffin, though no one made a fuss about it. Lex Luthor and a handful of Johnathon Kent's close friends he had met during his years as a farmer carried Clark's father. Pete, Martha's father, and a couple relatives from his mother's side Clark hadn't spoken to in years carried Martha. Each blade of grass that sloshed under their feet seemed to be mourning with them.

The coffins slid without fuss onto the mechanism that would lower them later. Clark scanned for a brief moment the attendees of the service. None of them really mattered, most here so they wouldn't feel guilty about not coming later. However, the sight of Chloe and Lana in black gowns and clutching umbrellas was the only thing to catch his eye. Lana offered him a look of comfort, which he only barely acknowledged before staring back down at the duel coffins before him. The preacher's speech was as meaningless to Clark as most of this was.

"We are here to mourn the loss of.........were a great influence on the community......made clothes for those who.........provided us all with.....and we shall....and they.......never be forgotten."

Jumbled words, mixed sentences. He just wanted to be alone with them, to wrap his arms around them one last time. That wouldn't happen, he knew. The realization of which had made his heart start to beat in a numb rhythm. Throughout the entire ceremony and the lowering of the coffins, Clark stood like a statue; unwavering. Black locks of hair from his lowered head had hidden his eyes. He dropped a white rose into his father's grave and a soft ruby one into his mother's, representing the tears he wish he could shed.  
  
As the people finally cleared, each gave Clark one comforting wish or another and with a silent vow, Clark turned to the road a couple yards off.

"Clark!" Came a voice he knew he'd miss.

His head craned back to glance at the few who had stayed behind. Lex nodded at Clark one last time before entering a limo that slowly carried him away. Lana, the one who had called after him, and Chloe eyed him with concern. Pete, knowing Clark as well as he did, only smiled weakly at him.

"Where are you going to now?" This time it was Chloe who chimed in.

_The mysterious, murderous man got out of the black vehicle. For a brief, and what Clark considered useless at the time, moment Clark glanced at the license plate. It read "High Lane" and below it "Best Cars in Mtrpls."_

"Back to Metropolis."

-End Prologue


	3. The Dark Side of the Moon

I gotta say I'm rather surprised how much this lil' fic is being enjoyed. I'm glad the few of you that have read it like it as much as you do. Tell your friends . Har har. Also, sorry for the long wait.

Disclaimer: I haven't been doing this, so I'll start now. I don't own anything of Smallville....except Kristin Kreuk. She is my love slave foreva' '.

Note: The language is a bit harsher in parts of this chapter, so if it's enough for an R rating (I don't feel it is), let me know.

Special Thanks To: Sera for giving me the energy to start this process a couple months ago. Chuck and Komm for the votes of confidence. Thanks you guys. Thanks a lot.

Chapter 1- The Dark Side of the Moon

"Hey! You scream again and I swear I'll slit yer' throat you stupid bitch. Just hand over that sweet little wallet of yers' and I'll be on my way." Grunted the unkept man tossing the small knife from hand to greasy hand.

Coal black hair dirty with clusters of dirt and filth from nights of rummaging through trash cans and assorted dumpsters flowed to the dandruff ridden shoulders of the criminal. He sniffed roughly as she shuffled frantically through her unorganized, pink leather purse. The man's pale green eyes darted left to right second after second, obviously worried someone had heard her initial scream. He laughed a nervous laugh to himself, who would hear (or care about) a squeaky scream from a small little alcove like this. It was near a crappy grace C deli, but it had practically no customers and those it did have came to discuss their next gang hit on one street or another.

This girl, it would seem, had gotten no such warning and had made herself an easy target for a desperate man such as himself. Her long, streaming blonde hair and preppy pink skirt and silk spaghetti strap top told anyone with half a brain she wasn't from this part of town. What she was doing here, besides stuffing herself with food-poisoning from the deli rat hole, was beyond him. The heel of her white leather high tops clicked against the asphalt with unease as she rushed to pull out her wallet in the midst of her crazed sobs. Whether from the nocturnal humidity or the situation at hand, the criminal's face began to glisten with perspiration. Finally she offered the wallet to him with a shaky hand, eyes lifting to meet his...and then past his.

"Hey! Over here! This guy's stealing my wallet!" She called out to the lone figure several miles back down the "catacombs" of the back alleys.

Her assaulter immediately glanced back, growling at the sight of the silhouette in the distance. Before taking time to deal with that problem, he turned to pistol whip the woman who was so suddenly filled with a shimmer of hope. Her frail frame immediately hit the ground, a cut split open just over her left cheekbone. Blood trickled down a bit from the smear on the gun, the severity of the strike apparent. However, turning back to aim the gun at the mystery man, only the bitter cold night air filled his vision.

"Good, a smart one." He smiled, trying to sound tough over the heavy relief in his voice.

To his dismay, he found himself suddenly looking up at what appeared to be the same man as he turned back around to claim the wallet that had fallen to the ground in the slight confusion. He wore blue jeans and a black sweater with a fairly large white "S" on the chest and the cream colored words "Smallville Crows" below on his gut. His face was hidden by black strands of hair and the shadow from the hood of the sweater cast off by a low power street lamp.

"How the hell....." Confusion was painted in his voice like a portrait.

Clark said nothing, a stoic guardian angel standing over his charge. Frustrated by what he felt was a showing of disrespect, the mugger swung his pistol in an attempt to club Clark in the temple. He found his arm stopped almost as soon as it had moved, a vice grip tightening around his wrist. It was the same sensation one got when fingers are slammed in a door, only this pain and pressure kept increasing until he heard his bone snap.

"Ahh! God damn! God DAMN! What the hell are you doing! Let go of me you prick! Ahh!" The man said, starting to go limp as the hot pain began to course through his entire body like fire.

"Ok." Clark responded, grasping the man's throat with his other hand and lifting him up.

As the man began to cough and fight to loosen himself with his other hand, Clark growled as he turned around and tossed him into the wall with the force of wrecking ball, the sound of vertebrae cracking against concrete echoing through the alley. He felt a cold sense of satisfaction at the sound, like he had every time he hurt scum like this during what had been so far a three week stay. Every broken leg or cracked rib was a shot at the man who had killed his parents.

The dull thump of his body stirred the girl into consciousness, Clark looming over her.

"W-who are you?" She was just afraid of Clark as she was of the mugger.

Clark only pulled out her cell phone and handed it to her.

"Get him an ambulance." His voice seemed to command, though no body lingered around the woman anymore except the unconscious man at her lap.  
  
"Another break Kent? You're lucky you're so good at what you do or you'd have been out of here the first week." Clark's supervisor, Rick, sighed in disappointment.

Clark muttered an apology and began to change into an orange jumpsuit with the Daily Planet logo embroiled on a small chest pocket. His hair lay in wild clumps thanks to the hood of the sweater. Not really concerned with how he came off as a janitor, Clark simply ran his hand through his hair and grabbed a broom handle attached to a yellow bucket of murky grey water.

It was a job as empty as his heart, crappy hours with even crappier pay. It didn't matter too much though, it was just enough money for a decent downtown apartment and it gave him access to important resources. Clark had applied for the job, for the most part, to get those resources to help him somehow find that black heart that took away his life. He knew he had only been there for a couple weeks, but the fact that nothing had turned up was a definite downer. High Lane Automotives had been shut down for several years which meant his only lead was a dead end. He had been waiting for something to pop up through the system. Anything from another murder or a robbery, something he could work off of.

Something inside Clark told him his nightly vigilante crusades might be scaring away his attacker. Yet, the man thought Clark was dead and even if he found out otherwise he had the means to fight and Clark wasn't sure he would be scared away by the attacks. Before he could get too deep into thought about it the annoying crack of his supervisor's voice filled his ears.

"That toilet overflowed again. Let's see you spend more than two seconds fixing it this time Kent. Quality over speed." His face split a wide grin at his words and Clark's misfortune.

Not a second after Rick's little comment did his shirt burst into flames. His cries suddenly filling the 15th floor as his flailing body found its way rolling on the ground. The fire licked up his back and leaped onto his polyester pants, blisters spreading like a plague on his body.

"KAL! Put me out!" Rick forced through clenched teeth.

Clark acted as surprised as he could and prolonged dumping the mop water on the screaming man's back. He darted around the small closet looking hurried and desperate before snatching up the bucket and dumping the murky water on the flames. What didn't go out Clark took care of by patting down and Rick took care of by rolling.

His temper had become something that controlled him, Clark knew. There was just something about the release that made him not care. If someone could just go around and shoot innocent people, Clark could lash out.

'At least I don't kill them...' Clark thought, reassuring himself.

He tried not to look at the 1st and 2nd degree burns covering the man's back and cooking on his abdomen. He knew there would be questions, but he was far away from Rick and Rick had walked passed a bottle of kerosene. All he could do now was notify the boss and get Rick an ambulance; the second ambulance in less than an hour. An ambulance, Clark felt, he didn't deserve.


End file.
